"A girl calls and asks, 'Does it hurt very much to die?' 'Well, sweetheart,' I tell her, 'yes, but it hurts a lot more to keep living.'" - Chuck Palahniuk

Part A

184 days sober The Goldwyn family home is a historical mansion in Ogelthorpe Square, with columns on the front porch and green painted shutters, and for as long as I’ve known them, the family has really only ever lived in half of it. The Savannah Historical Society gives weekday tours of the drawing room, the parlor—which is apparently something different from the drawing room, though they’re indistinguishable to me—the formal dining room, the kitchen, one of the upstairs bedrooms, and—through the immaculately groomed garden—the carriage house and slave quarters. Six of the upstairs rooms—including Jamie’s bedroom, his parents’ room, and four guest bedrooms—are off-limits to the public, as are the updated kitchen, informal dining room, and living room. The rooms the family actually uses are blocked off by velvet ropes in front of the doors, which the tourists are surprisingly respectful of, though I’d credit most of that to the presence of eagle-eyed guides. It’s a weird house, even forgetting the fact that fanny-pack-wearing tourists are constantly trampling through it. The house is creepily symmetrical, which I’ve been told is typical of Regency architecture, but which mostly means that there are mirror images of everything; staircases that branch off in opposite directions, windows everywhere, doors that don’t open because they’re only there to make the building look “even.” There are bridges inside, connecting the front of the house to the back on the second floor, which surprised me into silence the first time Jamie led me over one to get to his room. The best parts, though, are the stone-cold ridiculous concessions to tourism, like the goddamn gift shop in the carriage house. I nearly pissed myself laughing the day I realized I could get postcards with pictures of Jamie’s house on them. Standing in front of the house while Jamie unlocks the front door, I’m not laughing. Not at all. “Sorry, I don’t think I asked, but… have you all been here before?” I say over my shoulder. “Yes,” Tom says, at the same moment that both his kids say, “Not really.” Michelle doesn’t say anything. Tom offers me a shrug and adds, “Well, it’s been a while. My wife and I visit perhaps once a year or so, but the twins haven’t been here since they were about thirteen. I guess they don’t remember much about it.” The front door swings open, and Jamie steps over the threshold. I follow him with my left hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulderblades. As much for his benefit as for everyone else’s, I say, “Alright. So, uh, I can show you guys where the guest rooms are, if you wanna, you know, drop your bags somewhere. Jamie, do you want—” Abruptly, I snap my mouth shut. I’d been about to ask if he wants me to take the fourth guest room or sleep with him in his bedroom, but I’m not sure I can bring that up in front of his aunt and uncle; to my knowledge, he’s never discussed his bisexuality with anyone in his family. Including his parents, oh fuck. My hand tightens on the back of his shirt. “My aunt and uncle in the room that overlooks the street, across the hall from my parents’ room,” Jamie says. His voice is whisper soft, but I nod like he’s given me a strict order. “My cousins in my wing. April in the room next to mine, Ethan across from her, I think. Would you mind putting my bag in my room, please?” “Yeah, totally,” I say, taking the bag from his hand. I assume my lack of a room assignment—which would probably be the room across from his, next to the one he wants Ethan in—means that he wants me to stay with him; I’m all too happy to oblige. Even leaving him alone for the five minutes it’ll take to drop everybody off in their own rooms will feel like torture. Reluctantly, I ask, “Are you going to stay here?” He gestures down the long hallway towards the updated living room, the one the family actually uses. “I’ll be in the family room, I think. I need to start making calls, don’t I? The church, the people my father works with—I imagine my mother’s boss is already aware, seeing as how she was brought to the hospital where she works. But I’ll need to call their friends, too.” “Don’t be crazy,” I say quietly. “You don’t need to do that—I’ll handle it, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Just go, um—go wait in the family room, like you said. We’ll all be in there soon, yeah?” And fuck the audience, seriously; I kiss him high up on his cheek, close to his temple, before I nudge him off in the direction of the living room. He goes without comment, and I stride off towards the stairs, not bothering to see if I’m being followed. The first room we come to is the one Jamie asked me to have his aunt and uncle set up in. I announce this, and they step into the room; Michelle’s eyes are shining with tears again, and Tom closes the door behind himself, so I doubt they’ll be heading back downstairs immediately. I continue down the hall, over the weird indoor bridge, and come to a halt between the next set of rooms. I drag both sets of velvet ropes off to the side and show each of the Hall twins to the appropriate rooms. Ethan tosses his duffel bag on the foot of the bed and turns to face me expectantly, but April takes her time setting her suitcase down near the closet, her laptop bag on the desk, her purse on the bed. I lug Jamie’s suitcase into his bedroom, which is exactly the same as I remember it, even though I haven’t been here in a year and a half. The first time I’d walked in here, I’d nearly choked laughing at the walls—thick, alternating vertical stripes of dark navy and charcoal gray. Jamie had rolled his eyes, pushed me down on the bed—covered in matching navy, gray, and white bedding—and grumbled that these had been his bedroom colors long before they were his high school colors. I think part of me has wondered if he might change the whole navy-and-gray combo to Columbia blue and white, but no, everything is still the same. I set the suitcase down next to the closet, kick off my boots, and collapse onto the bed, burying my face in Jamie’s pillow. Usually, it smells like him—his cologne, his girly shampoo—but right now, it just smells like whatever fabric refresher the cleaning service sprays in here once every other weekend to make sure the room doesn’t smell stale in his absence. Either way, it’s not comforting. I roll back to my feet and trudge out into the hall to meet the twins. Ethan is standing in the middle of the hall, rocking on his heels so he can better peer down the hall; I guess it really has been a while since he’s been here, if he’s still curious about the place. April’s cell phone is in her hand, and I can’t help but stare right at it when it lights up with an incoming message. “If you start texting people in front of Jamie while he’s planning his parents’ wake, I will fucking smash that thing on the ground,” I warn. “I’m serious. Either the phone stays up here, or you do, because now is really not the time.” She appears momentarily stunned, but when I don’t waver, she retreats to the room just long enough to bury the phone back in her purse. The bitch has the gall to give me a sort of so there, are you happy? look. I ignore it and head straight to the stairs, leading the way back down through the foyer, past the tour-friendly rooms, and into the roped-off living room. Jamie is sitting on the sofa, Oxfords kicked off onto the carpet and his long legs tucked up under him. He has removed his suit jacket and carefully folded back the cuffs of the white button-down, but his waistcoat and tie are still in place, and his spine is still rod-straight, leaving him looking unbearably tense. There’s a notepad open on his knee, and he is periodically adding names to a list. “Busy already,” April observes. “We were only gone a few minutes.” “I’m making a list of everyone I need to call,” Jamie sighs. He adds another name to his paper, pauses, and glances around the room. “Where’s Aunt Michelle?” I clear my throat. “I, uh, think she needed a minute? I’m sure she and Tom’ll be down soon. In the mean time, though, is there something I can do for you? Anything I can get you?” Jamie shakes his head, and he seems serious enough about it that I don’t want to push the issue, so I fall silent and take a seat. I have been sitting on the couch for exactly three seconds when a tiny ball of dense, gray fur scurries out from under the coffee table and up onto my lap. I stare down at it. It stares back with bright green eyes almost the same color as mine. “Um,” I say. “Jamie? There’s a, uh—” “I’d forgotten about you,” Jamie says dully, reaching out with one hand to scoop the kitten off my thighs. “Are you still a vicious little cunt?” The kitten lets out a piercing yowl and gouges its claws into the back of Jamie’s hand. He curses and dumps it back on the couch. “Fucking—that’s a yes, apparently. She’s my—or, she… she was my mother’s. She was a Christmas present from my daddy.” “She looks sweet. What’s her name?” April asks. “I can’t remember. Lucifer, I suspect,” Jamie says. He pauses, shrugs. “Mostly, I’ve just been calling her ‘the cat.’ We only spent three days together over winter holiday before I went back to New York, but she attacks me every time I’m in the room with her. Even tried sneaking into my bedroom during the middle of the night so that she might suffocate me in my sleep by sitting on my face.” “Sounds like some of your ex-girlfriends,” I say without thinking. Ethan snorts, but tries to cover it with a cough. Jamie smirks at me, but it’s a cursory expression; I can tell he’s getting no real amusement from my comment. “She’s a bloodthirsty demon.” The kitten bats at my elbow, scrambles back up onto my lap, and flops over onto her back, bicycling all four of her limbs at me until I tickle her furry belly. She curls up around my hand, clamping it in place with her paws and nibbling at my fingers. The bites and scratches aren’t actually breaking the skin; I can barely feel her. I glance up at Jamie. “Yeah, she’s a real killer.” “She is,” he grumbles, turning to a fresh page on the pad. The kitten stops chewing on my fingers long enough to let out a pitiful mewl, and it hits me that she can’t have been fed since last night, before George and Melissa’s accident. She must be starving. I scoop her up with both hands and carry her out to the kitchen. Near the counter, there’s a short, mahogany hutch with two stainless steel bowls on top of it. One has a few dregs of water, and the other is empty, except for a few sloppy smudges of food residue. The kitten squirms in my hands until I set her down on top of the hutch, then stares expectantly at me until I collect the dishes and clean them in the sink. Once I’ve dried them and refilled the water dish, I return them to their original location, then kneel down to check the cabinet below. There are several cans of wet cat food, each one sounding like it could come off the menu at a five-star restaurant, but probably smelling like horse shit. I grab one at random, crack the top, and dump it into the dish. The kitten pretty much face-plants into the bowl, scarfing up as much food as she can at one time. I pet the back of her neck, and she flicks her tail at me, but doesn’t stop eating. Her single-minded dedication to chowing down is almost as impressive as Omelette’s. Fuck. Omelette. My dog, who’s waiting in my house, with my roommate, my life back in New York. A life that, as of right now, is completely disconnected from what’s happening here in Georgia. I fumble my phone out of my pocket; it’s still powered down from the flight here, and I wait impatiently for it to start up. The moment the main screen is available, I dial Travis’ number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does—he’s still in class now. When his inbox greeting finally ends and the beep sounds, I clear my throat and say, “Hey, Trav. It’s me. I need you to call me back the second you get this. I’m, uh—I’m in Georgia right now, with Jamie. Something happened. I don’t really want to say much more in a message, but it’s, uh… look, just call me back as soon as you get this, okay?” I let the silence hang there for a minute, and then add, in a quiet, hoarse tone, “I love you, T.” After hanging up, I check my watch. It’s after seven thirty, so I’m betting that Ben expected me to get home from MLEP two hours ago. I’m sort of surprised he hasn’t called already. I dial his number, and he picks up on the fourth ring. “Yeah?” he says dully. I sink down onto the kitchen floor and lean back against the refrigerator door, closing my eyes and letting my head loll back. “Hey. I kind of need to talk to you about something. Are you doing—like, are you busy right now? Do you have time to talk?” I can hear what might be fabric shifting on the other end of the line, like Ben is lying down on the living room couch. “Well, I was kind of supposed to be on a date right now,” he says, and oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. “But, seeing as how your best friend has made the decision to blow me off without so much as a word of explanation… yes, Garen. I do indeed have time to talk.” “That’s not what—he’s not blowing you off. I swear he’s not, and I know that sounds dumb, because he’s with me right now instead of, you know, on a date with you, but he’s not—” “Hang on, he’s with you?” Ben interrupts. I can’t make myself speak quickly enough to diffuse his quickly growing anger before he continues, “So, is that what this phone call’s about? You’re the mediator who needs to find a tactful way of saying, ‘he only asked you out because you were blue-balling him yesterday morning, but then you sucked him off that afternoon, so it’s not like he had to bother showing up tonight.’ I don’t—” “We’re in Georgia,” I interrupt. My tactfulness is gone; I’ve lost all ability to do anything other than shove the raw and awful words out of my throat as quickly as I can. “Jamie and I, both of us. He wanted to be in New York—he was, he was going to take you out tonight, I swear, but he had to—his parents are dead, Ben. Both of them. His aunt and uncle came to his place this morning to tell him. He called me, I left school, and we got on a plane. He would’ve picked you up, but he—he’s here, now. He’s in Georgia.” As quickly as the anger sparked to life in Ben, it’s gone again. There is a long moment of absolute silence. I don’t do well with silence; I shove a finger in my mouth and start gnawing on my fingernail to stop myself from babbling. Finally, Ben says, “How?” “Car accident,” I say. “They were both dead before they even got to the hospital. I-It’s just him now, just James.” “Fuck,” Ben mutters. His voice is a little muffled, like maybe he’s rubbing a distracted hand over his face. “How’s he handling it?” “Same way he handles everything, honestly,” I say. “He’s in the other room right now, making a list of everyone he needs to call. Probably fucking alphabetical. He was on the in-flight Wi-Fi the whole way down here, emailing the pastor from his church here to arrange a suitable time for the service, picking out flowers, writing th-their fucking obituaries, working things out with the people who work here to make sure the house is clear for calling hours the next few days. He’s handling it by handling it.” “When’s the funeral?” Ben asks. I shrug, even though he can’t see. “No funeral. Not, you know, graveside, anyway. Their… bodies are being donated to science. Melissa—Jamie’s mom was a doctor, so I guess it was important to her. There isn’t going to be a funeral, just some sort of religious service at the church this Saturday evening, then visiting hours at the home that night and all day on Sunday.” “Does he—” Ben stops, clears his throat, and tries again, “Travis and I can fly down. If he wants—I don’t know, I’ve never—I know that neither of us met his parents, but if James needs… you know, if he wants us there, we will be.” I don’t miss the careful pluralization, like he’s afraid of offering up just himself. And I definitely don’t miss the fact that he’s making the offer in spite of the fact that neither he nor Travis can really afford to drop the money for a sudden flight to Savannah. “You don’t have to do that. I know that Jamie, uh… I think he’s going to want to talk to you guys, you know, separately. Away from other people. He and Travis are friends, and you and him… you’ve got—” “Yeah, I know,” he says quickly. “Yeah,” I echo. “So, I think he’ll just want to see you when he gets back? There are going to be so many people in and out of here over the next few days, and I don’t think he’ll have much time to really sit down with anyone, so you guys should just… stay where you are. And we’ll both see you back in New—” My sentence breaks off the moment Jamie appears in the kitchen doorway. I blink up at him. He blinks back. In my ear, Ben says, “Garen, you still there?” “Yeah, I’m here,” I say. “Sorry, Jamie just walked in.” “Who are you talking to?” Jamie asks. “Ben.” Jamie freezes, and then it’s a pileup of thoughts playing out in his expression: realizing that he forgot about the date, that he didn’t call, that Ben must have thought he was being stood up. Slowly, he holds out his hand. “May I speak to him, please?” I scramble to my feet and pass him the phone, but don’t step back after doing so. Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in the front of his shirt. Right above my head, he says, “I should have called and told you I wouldn’t be able to make our date. I’m sorry. That was—” “Shut up, that’s not--James,” I hear Ben say. “Look, I’m sure it would’ve been a great date or whatever, but that’s the last thing I want you to be thinking about right now. I don’t—how are you?” “I’m fine,” Jamie says at once. And I can listen to him talk, I can listen to him try to sound calm, but I can’t listen to him lie. I tilt my head up to kiss him quickly on the lips, and then I slip past him, back into the living room. Michelle and Tom are still missing, and the twins are still sitting in two of the squashy armchairs. I sink onto the couch and start running through the list of people Jamie needs to call. Shit, there are at least fifty names and numbers here—the price of being part of Savannah’s high society, I guess. I debate digging Jamie’s phone out of his jacket pocket, since he’s on mine, and starting to make the calls on his behalf, but I decide to wait; I don’t know the details of the service yet, or what he’d want me to say. Instead, I sit there uselessly, silently. “Zooey,” Jamie says when he returns to the living room less than five minutes later. “The cat’s name is Zooey. There’s a note on the fridge about a vet appointment she had last week.” “What are you going to do with her?” I ask. “I mean, she’s yours now, right? So, is she going to come to New York with you?” Jamie glares down at the kitten; he’s probably picturing her sharpening her claws on his leather couch. Quickly, I amend, “I’m sure you could find somebody to adopt her instead. She’s gotta be a purebred something—” “She’s a Russian Blue,” April interrupts, reaching out to scratch Zooey under the chin. Zooey stretches and purrs; April’s hand goes to her pocket, like she’s looking for the phone I made her leave upstairs. The fuck was she gonna do, take a picture of somebody else’s kitten purring? That’s what kittens do. I’m liking April less and less by the second, especially when she adds, “She’s so cute. If you really don’t want her, I’ll take her.” She scoops up the kitten and raises her high over her head, beaming up at her. She’s so happy, I have to wonder if she even gives a fuck that the cat’s only homeless because Jamie’s mom is dead. I shove my hands into my pockets so that no one will see me clenching them into fists. “No,” Jamie says sharply. For a minute, I think he’s trying to call me off before I’ve even opened my mouth, but then he strides across the room and takes Zooey right out of April’s hands. Both April and Zooey look pissed, and the kitten gives a little wriggle, like she’s contemplating the idea of extending her claws and going right for Jamie’s face. He either doesn’t notice it or intentionally ignores it, instead choosing to cradle her to his chest and turn towards the door again. “She was my momma’s cat, which means she’s mine now. She’s going to come live with me, in New York.” “You don’t even like her,” April snaps. “You called her a demon like, five minutes ago. You should let me—” “You should shut the fuck up,” I interrupt, “’cause seriously, now is not the time. And if you can’t have some fucking respect for your cousin right now, I swear, I will send you to your room like you’re a goddamn toddler. So knock it. The fuck. Off.” April folds her arms over her chest. “I just want to know—” “April, shut up, James isn’t going to give you the cat,” Ethan says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak; he has the deep, awkwardly slow voice of a guy who spends probably ninety percent of his time ripping bong hits in a frat house. “Besides, you can’t have a cat in your dorm room anyway.” April opens her mouth to retort, but nothing comes out; Michelle and Tom have stepped into the room. A moment of silence drags out, and finally, April says, “Hey, Mom. How are you?” “I’ll be okay,” Michelle says around a thoroughly unconvincing, watery smile. She turns to face Jamie. “We should discuss the details of the funeral arrangements.” Jamie ducks his head and steps past her to dump Zooey on the couch and retrieve his laptop bag from next to it. He opens his Macbook and carefully sets it down on the coffee table, bringing up all of the emails and orders he’d been organizing the entire flight down. “I’ve handled it,” he says quietly. “Pastor Milton will be giving the service at our church this Saturday at twelve o’clock. I’ve arranged to have flowers brought in for it. I expect people will expect the house to be open for calling hours this weekend, so I was thinking it would make sense to have that happen on Saturday night and Sunday, after church.” “You don’t want people to come by at all tomorrow night?” Tom asks. Jamie shakes his head and admits, “I thought I might ask the Chandlers over for dinner. They were my parents’ best friends, and I’ve been friends with their three girls my whole life. It seemed appropriate that they should come by separately.” “Of course,” Michelle says. She pauses, clears her throat, and says, very carefully, “I was thinking I might go downtown to speak to the officers who processed the scene of the accident. I’d… I’d like to know more about what happened. You’re welcome to come with me, if you’d like, but I would understand completely if you thought it might be too upsetting. You can stay here.” “No, I, ah…” Jamie clears his throat, too. He looks so much like his aunt when he does it, so much like his mother. I look away. “I’d like to go. But there’s a long list of people I need to inform of the service, and I think I should start—” “No,” I interrupt. Five pairs of eyes turn to me. “I’ll call everyone. Just give me the names, numbers, and all the details you want me to share, and I’ll do it.” “You really don’t have to do that. They’re my parents. It’s my responsibility to take care of things like—” “Yeah, well, it’s my responsibility to take care of you,” I say. “So, shut up and let me see the list.” The Halls look a little taken aback by that, but Jamie gives me another of those strained, meaningless smiles and shows me all the paperwork. I am given specific instructions not to call Marcus and Robin Chandler, because Jamie thinks it would be wrong for anyone but him to make that call. Once that’s cleared away, his aunt and uncle step out of the living room, heading for the front door. Jamie lingers long enough to let me pull him into another tight hug. “Thank you,” he says. “Love you,” is my reply, but my face is pressed to his shoulder, so it comes out weird. “Of course,” he says. He leans back, but not out of my arms, and kisses me firmly on the mouth before he releases me and disappears after Michelle. When I turn back around, April and Ethan are both staring at me. I set my jaw, daring them to comment, and I guess April is more daring than I’d have guessed, because she says, “I didn’t realize you were his boyfriend.” “I’m not,” I say. “I’m his best friend. Have been since we were fourteen. Now, are either of you planning to help me make these calls, or what?” The minute of hesitation tells me everything I need to know. Still, April says, “I’m not sure I can. It’s hard. Melissa was our aunt, you know.” Yeah, your aunt who you never fucking saw, if your reaction to the house was any indication, I want to say. Stop pretending you’re in mourning, when you’re clearly too self-absorbed to even give a damn about helping Jamie with this. But I don’t know them well enough to scream at them just yet, and I don’t want to do anything that might cause problems for my friend. I settle onto the couch—Zooey immediately crawls back onto my lap and starts kneading her claws into the khaki material of the school uniform I still haven’t changed out of—and dial the number for the first name on the list. April and Ethan are quick to escape, probably so they won’t have to contribute to the process at all. The phone only rings twice before getting picked up. “Hello?” says the voice on the other end. “Hello, may I please speak to—” I check the list, “—Robert Cooper?” “Speaking,” says the man, voice slow and cautious, like he thinks I’m a telemarketer. I drag my palm over my too-short hair. “My name is Garen Anderson, I’m calling on behalf of the Goldwyn family.” Not like there’s much of it left anyway. “James Goldwyn, I guess. Um.” How the fuck am I supposed to say this? In the end, I just blurt out, “George and Melissa were killed in a car accident last night.” “Oh, Lord,” Robert Cooper says softly. “Are you serious?” No, asshole, I’m fuckin’ joking, I want to snap. Instead, I grit my teeth for half a second, swallow, and say, “Unfortunately, yes, I’m serious. There’s going to be a memorial service this Saturday at noon, at the First Baptist Church, on Bull Street. I’m sure your attendance would mean a lot to the family.” I’m sure of no such thing, but what else am I supposed to say? It’s hard enough to piece together the right words for even this part of the phone call, and it gets harder and harder with every name on that list. I dial number after number after number, and I give the same speech each time, but I can barely even feel my lips moving. For all I know, I could be saying-- What’s up? I’m Garen. Jamie’s parents are dead. Hey, how’s it going? Pretty shitty over here, I guess, ‘cause Jamie’s parents are dead. Hi. I’ve never spoken to you in my fucking life, but my best friend’s parents are dead, and now I need to pretend to give a fuck about your dumbshit reaction to it, when all I want to do is sit with him and hold him and never let him go. But every time someone picks up, the same speech trips off my tongue, over and over, and finally, hours later, I can set the phone down and just shake. Thirty seconds pass, and then my phone starts ringing. I look down at it—Travis’ face is lighting up my caller ID, some silly, adorable picture I’d taken of him sticking his tongue out at me during Grease rehearsals months ago. I snatch up the phone and almost trip over my own feet in my haste to get out of the house and into the back garden. Even after sunset, it’s still so much warmer here than in New York, and the flowers that line the yard are just coming into bloom. The very center of the garden is home to a huge, marble fountain that Jamie and I used to get drunk and play in during summer vacations here. I sit down on the edge of it and answer the call. “I just got your message,” Travis says before I can even get a greeting out. “What happened? Why are you guys in Georgia?” I mean to tell him. I really do. But I hear his voice, and I open my mouth to say the words, and I fall apart. I hunch over so that I can bury my face against my knees in the hope of muffling the gasps that are coming out of my mouth now, but I must not be doing a great job, because Travis says, more than a little panicked, “Garen? Are you—Garen, baby, what’s going on? Are you okay? Is James okay? I need you to give me something to go on.” James. James. This is about James, not me. I cling to that thought, swallow down the next pathetic sob that tries to work its way out of my throat, and lift my face enough to say, “James and I are fine. It’s not—it’s his parents. They were in a car accident, and now they’re dead, and I can’t—I don’t know w-what to—Travis, his parents are dead.” “They’re… dead,” Travis echoes, like I fucking stuttered or something. “Both of them.” “Yeah,” I croak. “And he—I don’t even know what to say. The only thing I can think is, ‘is he okay,’ but of course he’s not o-fucking-kay. But I don’t—I want to fly down,” he says. “I want to be there for you, both of you.” I choke out a laugh. “That’s what Ben said, too. I talked to him earlier, when I couldn’t reach you at first. He said you guys would come down here if we needed it, but um… I don’t think you should. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Fuck that. It’s the only idea,” Travis argues. “I want to see you. I want—” “If I see you, I’m going to fucking lose it,” I interrupt. “If I let you come here, you’re going to try to take care of me, and that’s not—I’ve got to be there for Jamie right now. That’s more important than how I feel. I cared about George and Melissa, and it hurts that they’re gone, but they were his family. He comes first. You make me vulnerable, and I can’t afford that. Not now.” I listen to him very slowly inhale and exhale. It’s so quiet around him, but his classes only ended maybe fifteen minutes ago, so I don’t think he’s left the city yet. He must be sitting in his car, probably still in the second parking garage space Jamie’s apartment entitles him to, where he parks it every night after he drives in for class. Finally, he says, “Your parents were friends with Mr. and Mrs. Goldwyn, I assume. Are they flying down for the funeral?” The question hits me like a fist to the face. In fact, I’d rather feel a fist to the face than have to whisper out the truth, which is, “Oh, fuck. I didn’t even—I forgot. I forgot to call them. Everybody on that fucking list, and I couldn’t even remember to call my own parents. Jamie’s parents are dead, and I can’t even remember to call mine, what the fuck kind of—” “Garen,” Travis says sharply, “stop that. You’ve got a thousand different things to think about right now, you’re not going to beat yourself up for forgetting to make a single phone call. And you don’t have to, alright? I’ll call them. I’ve still got Bill’s number, and he can talk to Marian. It’s fine. I’ll ask them to text you their flight info so you know when to expect them, and they’re going to come help you and Jamie both. Okay?” I nod, even though he can’t see it. He knows me well enough to know what I’m doing, though, because he continues, “I want you to be safe, G. If you—this is a lot of pressure. It’s so much to deal with, too much, and if you start to feel like you’re drowning, you need to talk to me.” Translation? Don’t you dare let this be the reason you start drinking again, even though it feels like such a good reason. “I will,” I promise. “I believe you,” he says simply, and that counts for so much more than he knows. “And if you decide you want me to come down after all, all you’ve gotta do is call me. I’ll leave my phone on all the time, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. You change your mind, I get on a plane. Do you hear me?” “I hear you,” I murmur. “Thanks. I should, um… I’m going to go wait for Jamie. He and his aunt went to go talk to some people who were at the scene of the accident, I guess, and he’ll be back soon. I want to be waiting for him when he gets here.” “Yeah, of course. Do whatever you need to do,” Travis says. “Call me again when you have the time, though? Even if it’s just, you know, to check in tomorrow, or whatever.” Another nod he doesn’t see. “I love you.” The last time he said those words to me was in a suicide note that I made him tear to pieces. I hadn’t been sure, until right now, that I would ever hear him say it again. “I love you, too,” I say thickly. “Can you hug Omelette for me when you get home?” He laughs quietly. “Of course. Goodnight, G.” I stuff my phone back into my pocket and go back into the house to wait. Both of the Hall kids are sitting on the couch, watching a rerun of some MTV show about internet predators or whatever. April has clearly gone up to her room to retrieve the phone I made her leave in her purse, because she’s texting away. I kind of want to smash the phone on principle, but I’ve already called everyone who needs to know about the service on Saturday, and Jamie’s not in the room, so I don’t technically have anything to complain about. I do, however, pluck Zooey off April’s lap and curl up with her in one of the armchairs, because fuck April, seriously. When Michelle, Tom, and Jamie return ten minutes later, the first thing Jamie does is come into the living room to collect his suit jacket and laptop bag. He doesn’t look anyone in the eye as he says, “I’m going to go to bed. I’ll see y’all in the morning,” but the moment he reaches the door, he glances back for half a second, just long enough to catch my eye. I abandon Zooey on the chair and bolt after him, calling over my shoulder, “Yeah, same. Night.” James is moving quickly enough that I don’t actually catch up to him until we reach his bedroom. He dumps the laptop bag on his desk and strides over to the closet to hang up the jacket. He hoists his suitcase up onto the bed and unzips it, digging into it and starting to unpack. Every single item, already perfectly folded, is unfolded, shaken out, and placed in the closet, either on a hanger or refolded into one of the many drawers set along the right side of the closet. “Jamie,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he says. He is not fine. He reaches the end of his clothes, then moves on to mine. There are four basically identical black v-necks, already folded and ready to be moved to the dresser. He unfolds all four of them, smooths them out two-by-two on the bedspread, and stares down at them for nearly a full minute before picking up the bottom-left shirt and switching it with the top-left shirt. Another minute of staring. He flips the top-left shirt over and folds the sides in, sleeves in, bottom up, just like it would be on a store shelf. He turns it right side up, then repeats the process on the top-right shirt, the bottom-left shirt, and finally the bottom-right. He stacks them in that order, pauses, unstacks them, and restacks them the opposite way. Only then does it hit me that he’s trying to organize them by color, even though the fading between the oldest shirt and the newest is barely noticeable. They’re all black, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. He moves the shirts to the top drawer, and I think that’s going to be it. I think he’s done. He’s not. He retrieves the brown leather toiletry bag from his suitcase, packs the suitcase away in the closet, and brings the leather bag to his connected bathroom. If I were the one unpacking, I’d just dump everything in the sink and fish things out as I needed them. But this is Jamie; obsessive, perfectionist, maybe-a-little-bit-crazy Jamie. I sit down on the end of the bed; he sits right down on his bathroom floor and takes the items out one by one, lining them up on the rim of the tub. Every few items, he needs to shift everything down a few inches to make a special space for a particular item. Body wash, contacts solution, conditioner, deodorant, mouthwash, shampoo. He hesitates. The body wash gets moved three inches to the left to make room for his cologne. The last two items are taken down, replaced with face wash and hair product, then returned to the end of the line. He looks at the items, then back into the bag, then back at the items. He takes out his razor and carefully sets it in the small space between the mouthwash and shampoo. He adds his shaving cream to the end of the line, then his toothbrush, then his toothpaste. Finally, he breathes. “Jamie,” I repeat. He looks over his shoulder at me and presses his lips together in a thin line for a few seconds before he says hoarsely, “Yeah. I just wanted to unpack before bed.” I very pointedly do not mention the fact that there’s unpacking, and then there’s taking ten minutes to alphabetize your bathroom items. Instead, I say, “Talk to me.” He puts the bag in the cabinet under the sink and stands up, snatching his toothbrush and toothpaste off the end of the line. I sigh and join him in the bathroom, retrieving one of the spare, unopened toothbrushes I know he keeps in the medicine cabinet. We get ready for bed in utter silence, and it’s only once the lights are off and we’re both tucked up under the covers that he takes a deep breath, rolls onto his side to face me, and says, “Aunt Michelle and I asked what caused the accident.” “And?” I say, reaching out to brush his hair off his forehead. “Some… kid. Some seventeen-year-old kid drove right into the side of their car while trying to pass them on the freeway. Sent them into the shoulder, through the guardrail, right off the edge of the road,” Jamie whispers. “They said my mama probably died when they hit the guardrail, because she was already gone before anyone got to her. Even the people who pulled over to try to help before the ambulance got there. My daddy was driving, and he, ah… he died later. In the ambulance.” “Did the other driver survive?” I ask. I honestly don’t know which answer I’m hoping for. I can barely see Jamie’s blank face in the darkness, but I can see that he nods. “Yes. They had to take him to the hospital for some cuts and bruises, some airbag burns, a bit of whiplash. But he… he’s going to be fine.” “But I don’t—why did he hit them in the first place?” I ask. “How could he not have seen them if he’d just been passing them?” Jamie is silent for a long while. Long enough for me to have a horrible moment of realization right before he finally says, “He’d been smoking up. The bowl was still hot when the police arrived and found it on the passenger side floor of his car.” My hand goes still in his hair. I have no idea what to say to him. Worse than that, I have no idea how to stave off the sudden guilt that’s threatening to crush me. How many times had I driven after I’d been drinking or getting high? For fuck’s sake, how many times had I used my knee on the steering wheel because I needed both hands to smoke a bowl while I was actively driving down the street? And how many times has Jamie been in the car with me while it happened, not batting an eye over it? He’s remembering it now, I can tell he is. He’s thinking of every time we did exactly the same thing that got his parents killed; he’s thinking of every person we could have killed, if luck hadn’t been on our side on that particular day. And for once, it wasn’t my stoned mistake that ruined someone’s life, but I can’t stop myself from whispering, “I’m sorry.” Jamie doesn’t say a single word. He just shifts closer, burrows into the circle of my arms, and cries.

185 days sober I wake up alone. Well, sort of alone—Zooey is curled up next to me on the bed, her body half-obscuring a folded note with my name on it. I wiggle it out from under her and flip it open. Garen, Jamie has written in neat script. It occurred to me a moment ago that you don’t have anything here to wear to the service tomorrow. Here’s the name and address of my tailor in town, as well as a car service that can take you there. If you’d like to meet me after you’ve taken care of that, I’m taking a drive out to the stables to see the horses. You know the address. Love, Jamie. Below that, he has scrawled in a much less neat hand, P.S. The fucking cat bit me again. Think Travis would let you adopt her? I suspect that she would be a delicious snack for... I mean, a true friend for Omelette. “Hey. You have no idea how close you are to becoming puppy chow,” I say to Zooey, poking her in the side. She purrs. Really, no sense of danger. By the time I shower and get dressed—in the most faded black v-neck and a pair of too-tight jeans that I left here before my first senior year—it’s nearly eleven, but when I come down to the kitchen, I find that both the Hall twins are still in their sleep clothes. “Good morning,” I say, heading straight for the coffee pot, which is thankfully already full. “Hello,” April says, drawing the word out for too long, at the same time that Ethan says, “Oh, hi there.” It’s weird enough that for a second, I assume it means they were just talking about me. Then I glance over my shoulder to find them both staring right at the skintight denim over my ass. And for the first time in the twenty-four hours since we’ve met, it hits me: this is Ethan motherfucking Hall. This is the soccer-star douchebag who took Ben’s virginity after prayer group, or whatever. I almost snort up a mouthful of coffee, which is enough to get both twins’ eyes back on my face. I wave them off. “Sorry.” I stop to cough. “Sorry, it’s just, uh—you guys are from Lakewood, right?” “How’d you know that?” April asks, brow furrowed. “I lived there for about a year,” I say. “Guess I must’ve seen you around. Or maybe we have, uh… mutual friends, or something.” Ethan tilts his head to the side. “Who’d you hang out with?” “Look, I’m going into town,” I say. “I need a suit for tomorrow afternoon. Knowing Jamie, he’d like me to dress nicely for dinner with his parents’ friends tonight, too, and probably Sunday, during the calling hours. So, I’ve gotta go buy some stuff, and then I’m gonna go meet him at the stables where he boards his horses. Do either of you want to come along?” This turns out to be the worst question I could’ve asked, because they both say yes. I spend the greater part of the afternoon waiting around for alterations to be made to a plain black suit, then letting April drag her brother and me from store to store. She claims to be searching for something suitable to wear to the service, but sometime after the fourth store, Ethan mutters to me that she has at least three black dresses back at the house. Ethan isn’t any better company. I’m pretty sure he wants to hit on me, but isn’t entirely sure that the one kiss he witnessed between me and Jamie means that I’m actually into dudes. He keeps trying to brag about his life back in Connecticut, but he’s bragging about all the dumbest shit. He goes to UConn, but I’ve banged guys who’ve ended up at every Ivy League school except Harvard. He plays soccer, but I spent my entire high school career pounding his cousin, the captain of the lacrosse team. He drives an Audi, but big fucking deal, I drive a classic Ferrari. He’s in a fraternity, but do I look like the kind of guy who’s impressed by Greek life? The whole time he’s dropping these little bits of information, he keeps “casually” bumping into me, nudging my knee with his while we sit outside his sister’s dressing room. I’m about five seconds away from telling him to get the fuck away from me when my phone rings. Thank god. I answer it immediately. “Yeah, hi?” “Hi,” Jamie says. “Did you get my note?” “Yes. I’m in town right now. Ethan and I already got our suits, but April’s still dragging her fuckin’ feet on finding a new dress—” “I like this one,” April announces, stepping out of the dressing room. Her dress is definitely not for the service tomorrow; it’s short, tight, and bright turquoise. She turns her ass to me, gives a little wriggle, and looks over her shoulder. “Garen, what do you think?” I look at her, then at her ass. She shimmies again. To Jamie, I say, “Dude, I think she’s trying to get on my dick. What do I do?” Jamie chuckles. “I’m about to take Boxer out for a ride. Would you like me to saddle up one of the others and wait for you?” “Yes, please,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “I’m going to leave now. Your cousins can take the car back to the house, I’ll get a cab to the stables. See you in like, twenty minutes.” My plan falls to shit about four seconds after I hang up the phone. Both the twins bitch until I agree to let them come along, and by the time April has changed into her own clothes and bought her new haul, it actually ends up taking closer to forty minutes to get to the stables. Jamie is already in the paddock with Boxer, his sleek brown Holsteiner. One of the stable assistants is off to the side, waiting with Nugget, the gray Trakehner I usually get to ride when I’m in town. When he sees me, Jamie raises one hand in a brief wave and says, “Get changed and come back out here.” I jog into the stables and find my way to the room where helmets and riding boots are stashed away. There’s no way I can ride in the jeans I’m wearing now without permanently damaging my balls, so I have to hunt down some of Jamie’s spare riding breeches. Once I’m suitably dressed, I head back out to the paddock to take control of Nugget from the stable hand. I pull myself up onto the horse—Jamie watches me carefully, probably just so he can laugh at me if I tumble off like I did when I first tried it at age fifteen—and take her around the perimeter of the paddock at a walk, just to get a feel for riding again. I’ve barely completed my first circuit when April says, “I want to ride, too.” “Such a shame that I’m not going to let you touch any of my horses, isn’t it?” Jamie says mildly, and I duck my head to hide a smile. “Why not?” April demands. “Because I’m riding Boxer, Garen’s got Nugget, and unless you’ve got a talent for racing that I’m unaware of, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you on either of the Thoroughbreds.” April crosses her arms, glowers at him, and repeats, “Why not?” “Because these horses are collectively worth about one million dollars, and I’m not about to entrust any of them to the care of a girl who believes that a sundress and a pair of pumps are appropriate riding attire,” Jamie says. I expect April to continue arguing her point, but she just huffs and leans back against the fence. On my third circle of the paddock, I ride past the twins just in time to hear Ethan mutter to his sister, “I heard Mom say Aunt Melissa and Uncle George left everything to him. House, vacation home, horses, boat, all their savings. Situation sucks and all, but suddenly being worth twenty-five million is a pretty nice silver lining.” “I’d totally trade our parents for that much,” April whispers back, and Ethan laughs in agreement. “Hey, Jamie?” I call. “How hard would it be to train a horse to kick somebody in the face?” Ethan shoots me a wary look, and I wish I could set him on fire with my returning glare. Jamie might not hear my question, but it’s a lot more likely that he intentionally ignores me. For the next hour, he runs Boxer through the jumping course over and over again. I can’t ride nearly well enough to handle obstacles, so I stick to circling the paddock on Nugget. She’s probably bored as fuck—god knows I kind of am—but I think Jamie would stab my eyes out with a hoof pick if I tried to jump anything bigger than a pebble. Once Jamie and Boxer have thoroughly exhausted themselves, I find myself being directed towards the building attached to the stables instead of to the riding stalls themselves. Jamie says, “You can wait along the far side of the building, if you’d like. I’ll have one of the stable hands help me brush down the horses, and I’ll meet you out here in a bit.” I want to offer to help, but I’ve got no idea how to take all the tack off the horses, so I lead the Halls to the collection of picnic tables behind the stables. Within seconds of sitting down, both of them are on their phones. Guess that means conversation is out of the question, though I can’t say I’m disappointed by this. We’re far enough away from the barn that I don’t think I’ll be in danger of setting us all on fire if I smoke, so I pull a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of my discarded jacket and light up. “Oh, thank god,” April says immediately, diving for her purse. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed to smoke around here.” She takes a Newport from a pack in her purse, but doesn’t search out a lighter. I might be a faggot, but I’m still a guy, and I still know my cues; I flick my Zippo and offer her the flame. She leans into it, then winks at me through her puff of smoke. I shut the lighter and look away. Upon taking a seat, Ethan had emptied his pockets. On the table between us are his phone, a pack of gum, and what I guess are his car keys, but it’s hard to be sure. There’s definitely a key or two present, but most of the rest of the fob is taken up by several rings. Actual rings, possibly engagement rings, which is too creepy to contemplate. I want to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know. “We shouldn’t stick around here much longer,” Jamie announces when he joins us several minutes later. “My guests will be coming by the house at around six, and I’ll need to shower and dress before then.” “Who are the guests, again?” Ethan asks, barely looking up from his phone. “Robin and Marcus Chandler, my parents’ closest friends. And they’ll be bringing their three daughters; Addison, Morgan, and Darcy.” “Any of ‘em hot?” Ethan asks. I squint at him; I’d assumed he was playing exclusively on my team, not Jamie’s. “Morgan is married and will likely be bringing her husband, Austin,” Jamie says, “Darcy has been dating the same boy for about three years.” Ethan raises his eyebrows. “And the other one? Is she hot?” Jamie’s own brow twitches in response. “Incredibly. She’s also been my girlfriend on and off since my sophomore year of high school.” “Well, are you on or off right now?” Ethan asks. He’s wearing a sly smile that he probably thinks is cute, but is actually just sort of slimy. Jamie braces an elbow on the picnic table and leans forward. “Off, for about a year now, but that’s irrelevant. You and I will have to have words, if I find out that you’ve put your hands on another person I care about.” Ethan’s forehead creases in confusion. “Another person?” Oh, great. Because now is the time to have our big ‘raise your hand if you’ve fucked Ben McCutcheon, oh wait, that’s every guy at this table’ conversation. In an effort to salvage the situation, I scoop up the key ring on the table between us and say, “Gotta ask, man. What’s with the jewelry collection?” “What—oh, that.” Ethan laughs a little awkwardly. “That’s, uh—they’re, you know, trophies, I guess?” I stare at him. He shrugs. “I went to a Catholic high school, and between there and church, most of the girls I’ve gotten on have been virgins. And a lot of them wear these purity rings. So, it’s… you know, I take ‘em after I bang the chicks. Like, a souvenir.” “Trophies,” Jamie repeats. “Yeah.” “Like a serial killer,” I say. Ethan frowns. Jamie reaches over and takes the key ring out of my hands. He flips carefully through them; most of them are pretty girly, with tiny gemstones, delicate bands, engraved hearts and rosebuds. But Jamie’s hands falter on one of them--a thick steel band circled by a pattern that I’m guessing is supposed to be a crown of thorns, filled in with black enamel. Just below the thorns, there’s an engraving of the words “true love waits” and a bible verse. It’s unmistakably a man’s ring. “Which one was first?” Jamie asks. It isn’t as if he doesn’t know, and it isn’t as if he’s being subtle; he slips the tip of his finger into the ring and gives it a little twirl. April snickers. Ethan gives an aborted half-gesture towards the key ring. “Uh, that one, I guess. The one you’re touching.” “Hmm,” Jamie says. He twirls the ring again. For a moment, I think that’s going to be it, but then he says, oh so casually, “Does he know you have this?” Silence. Ethan clears his throat. “What?” “Does the gentleman to whom this ring belongs know that you have it?” Jamie asks. “It’s not exactly a dainty piece of jewelry, and I’m not an idiot. This obviously once belonged to a man, and yet, I don’t recall you ever mentioning that you were bisexual.” Ethan says nothing. Jamie hums a little. “Though, in fairness, I haven’t been particularly forthcoming about the same.” April chokes on a puff from her cigarette. When she finally finishes hacking up half a lung, she gasps out, “I guess that finally gives me a real answer on whether or not you and your ‘friend’ here are really a couple.” “I told you, we’re not a couple. Never have been,” I say. “But you’re bi, too, right?” she says, with a heavy air of isn’t every guy bi these days? “Nope,” I say shortly. “I bat exclusively for the boys’ team.” She looks pissed; Ethan looks intrigued. I roll my eyes and kick at the dirt. “Tell me about him,” Jamie says. I look over at him, but he’s staring hard at his cousin’s face. When Ethan still doesn’t speak, Jamie rattles the keys at him. “If the rest of these rings are any indication, you switched back to ladies after him, so come on. Tell me what he was like.” I nudge Jamie’s foot under the table, but he kicks me back, hard. Ethan scowls and ducks his head. “He was nobody. Just some kid who was in our church youth group when we were in high school.” “What was he like?” Jamie asks April now. She lights up at being included in the question; clearly, she does not share her twin’s hesitation to gossip. “Oh my god, he was so weird,” she gushes. “Seriously, we all had this big bet going on for like, three years about whether or not he was autistic, because he had pretty much zero social skills. He hardly ever spoke to any of us, and when he did, he used to have this really pronounced stutter. Like, I couldn’t even understand him for the first year I knew him, until he got to high school and his broke-ass family finally shelled out for speech therapy, except now he speaks in this creepy monotone, like a fucking robot. It’s hilarious.” My hands are shaking almost too much for me to light another cigarette. Even after all the conversations I’ve had with Evelyn McCall and Joss Pryce, I’ve never wanted to punch a woman as much as I want to punch April right now. I guess now that the ice is broken, Ethan is fine to contribute, because he groans, “Why do we even need to talk about him? He was just this loser I pity-fucked a couple of times. Our parents used to be friendly, so they made him give me and April rides home from youth group. She blew it off a couple times, so I dunno, we fucked around some. He sucked me off once or twice, I fucked him a couple times. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t even good sex, alright? He was a fuckin’ freak, and he wasn’t even hot. A skinny emo kid with no friends. Pathetic. He was lucky I even gave him the time of day.” “And I—” Jamie has to break off for a moment, because his voice is trembling. I force myself to glance at him, and he appears to be just barely restraining himself from climbing over the table and beating his cousin senseless. It’s not a look I’m unfamiliar with. He clears his throat, and begins again, “And I would wager that you made sure he knew that, didn’t you? Probably took care to tell him it to his face, right?” Ethan snorts. “Wouldn’t you? I mean, come on. You fuck some desperate virgin, some skinny, pasty English nerd whose only friends are like, his books and a piano or whatever—you give it to him because he’s there and you’re bored ‘n horny, and then he starts thinking he matters? You’d make sure he knew what a loser you thought he was, too, wouldn’t you?” The only reason I’m still sitting instead of launching myself at Ethan is because I need to know that Jamie won’t hate me for it. With his parents gone, he’s only got a few people left in his family, and I can’t attack one of them, not if it’ll hurt my best friend, not even to defend Ben, who’s my family. I am practically vibrating with the effort it is taking me to remain seated, but even my own guard-dog instincts won’t let me attack him without Jamie letting me off the leash first. But Jamie is frozen in place, eyes blank and staring. A minute drags by, and still no one speaks. Finally, Jamie leans back and says, “Yes. I suppose I would say all of that to him, wouldn’t I?” “Jamie,” I say sharply, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already on his feet with a muttered excuse me, striding back to the car he drove in and pulling out his iPhone as he goes. And that’s permission enough for me. I turn to face Ethan and snarl, “You asked who I hang out with in Lakewood? I hang out with Ben McCutcheon. He’s one of my best fucking friends, you asshole, and if I could find a way to eliminate you from the face of this earth without upsetting Jamie by forcing him to bury yet another family member, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You’re disgusting.” And then I’m off the bench and sprinting after Jamie, barely in earshot long enough to hear Ethan’s disgruntled, “Does James realize he took my keys with him?” “Jamie!” I call, but he has already reached the space where he parked the Cadillac CTS that used to belong to his mom. For one heart-stopping second, I think he’s going to drive off, furious and shaking, unbuckled, cell phone to his ear; I think he’s going to be the third Goldwyn to die in a car wreck in as many days. But instead of getting behind the wheel, he sinks into the passenger seat, starts the car, aims the air conditioner vent at his face, and begins frantically texting. I’m still shaking as I open the driver’s side door and get in. “James,” I say. “You’re not—” “No fucking service,” he interrupts, sounding weirdly close to laughing, even though he doesn’t look happy in the slightest. “For the first time in my life, I’m trying to call that little shit, and he’s got no service. Says he can’t get clear calls in the city.” “Who, Ben?” I say. I deserve the eyeroll Jamie sends my way as he says, “No, G, the fucking president. Yes, Ben.” “Look, your cousin is an asshole, alright?” I say. “That doesn’t mean that you’re the same way. He’s—” “Don’t give me a free pass just because I’m your best friend,” Jamie interrupts. “You’ve heard how I talk to him, haven’t you? For Christ’s sake, Garen, I can’t remember ever saying one nice thing to his face. I’m as bad as Ethan is. Worse, really, Ethan at least had the grace to sleep with him a couple times and bail. I’ve treated him like shit in the same breath I’ve used to ask him out. That’s not fair. I haven’t been fair to him.” I don’t know what to say to that. Between the two of us, Jamie has always been considered “the nice one,” and I’ve always been considered “the gigantic asshole who torments people for fun.” If he’s now realizing he’s a selfish cunt who treats his guys like shit, then what the fuck does that say about me? I turn to face the steering wheel. “Buckle your seatbelt. I’ll drive us back to the house.”

He spends most of the drive back texting someone, presumably Ben, and I spend the entire drive in silence. We make it back to the house by five, giving us both enough time to shower and dress for dinner, which I’m privately delighted to find out is being handled by the Goldwyn family chef, Magda. I set myself up on one of the bar stools in the kitchen and sneak bites of the food whenever I think she’s not looking. “I’m going to cut off your fingers if you reach into that bowl again, boy,” she warns. “I can’t help it, I’m a nervous eater,” I say. “The Chandlers make me anxious.” Magda smirks. “All of them, or just the one who outranks you?” I narrow my eyes. “None of them outrank me, fuck off. I don’t care how long she dated Jamie, I’m his best friend. His best friend forever. I’m still above her on the totem pole.” “Three years is a long time,” Magda muses. “Three years on and off. That barely even counts,” I argue. “Like, they got together in what, winter of our sophomore year? They were broken up by spring break, back together for parts of the summer, broken up for fall, back together for like, November, then broken up again for most of the spring semester, back together for summer. It’s bullshit. That doesn’t count as a relationship. They break up so much because they’re not meant to be together.” “Perhaps they get back together so much because they are meant to be together,” Magda says. I glare at her. She smiles serenely back at me. Suddenly, I get a brief flash of Travis in my mind. Travis, who I’ve been with-and-then-without at least half a dozen times. I duck my head and scowl down at the salad bowl, fishing out another slice of cucumber. “Yeah, whatever. Addison still doesn’t outrank me.” Magda’s reply is cut off by the ringing of the front doorbell. Jamie’s still upstairs, probably fixing his tie for the nine millionth time, so I straighten my own—Christ, three and a half years in a school uniform, you’d think I’d learn to hate these less—and bolt for the front door. I fling it open, and there they are, all five of them. Well, six, counting Morgan’s husband. Seven, counting the little girl standing right in front of them, and oh fuck, I didn’t realize they even had a kid now, let alone that they were bringing her. Jamie’s going to shit, he hates kids. “Garen,” Marcus says warmly. I’m surprised he even remembers me; we’ve only interacted maybe eight times, and most of those times, I was sneaking off with Jamie and some of the girls to go hang out somewhere away from whatever summer dinner party boredom we were being subjected to. “Hey, Mr. Chandler,” I say, “James’ll be right down, he was just finishing getting ready. Come on in.” I’ve hung out with the Chandler girls every summer I’ve come to visit Jamie. I know them, not well enough to be best friends with them, but well enough that it isn’t weird when Darcy—the twenty-one-year-old middle sister—breaks ranks and steps close enough to hug me in greeting. I give the others a quick, blank smile over her shoulder and squeeze back. Before she can release me, Morgan—the oldest at twenty-five—latches on, too. Addison—a year younger than me, but a high school senior, too—seems about to join in, but she catches sight of something behind me and goes still. I turn to look; Jamie has finally made his way downstairs. I’ve never seen him look more alone than he does right now, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway and offering up a half-shrug, like he’s apologizing for being the only Goldwyn left to attend. Addison edges right past me and flings herself at him, winding her arms tight around his neck. He hugs her back and buries his face in her shoulder. I can’t hear what she’s saying to him, only that she’s murmuring something in his ear, and he’s nodding wordlessly. It’s an uncomfortably intimate moment, and one that Jamie is quick to remedy; he releases her and steps back, holding her at arms’ length as he says, “It’s good to see y’all again. Please, come in. My aunt, uncle, and cousins are in the living room, if I might introduce you.” “Of course,” Robin says. She steps into the house and crosses the hall to sweep Jamie into a hug of her own. It lasts much longer than Addison’s, especially when Marcus steps up to squeeze Jamie’s shoulder. Wanting to give them at least the semblance of privacy, I turn to the rest of the group. Thankfully, Morgan picks up on my intention immediately and says, “Garen, I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Austin, have you? Austin, this is Garen, James’ best friend.” “Good to meet you,” Austin says, shaking my hand. “Yeah, likewise,” I say. The moment he lets go, I drop to one knee so I’m eye-level with the little girl at his side. “And who might this be?” “This is our daughter, Charity,” Morgan says. “It’s very nice to meet you, Charity,” I say. She mumbles some semblance of the phrase back at me and hides her face in the side of her dad’s pant leg. It’s fucking adorable. I stand, smiling, and lead the way to the living room door. “C’mon. Everybody else is through here.” Once everyone is gathered in one room together, introductions are made. It doesn’t seem to escape Robin or Marcus’ attention that Michelle looks almost exactly like Melissa did, but they dissolve into polite small talk regardless. Jamie introduces his cousins to the Chandler girls, none of whom comment on April’s completely out-of-place attire—she’s wearing the tight turquoise dress she bought today, before we went to the stables. The moment Jamie steps away to check how Magda’s doing with the food, I hear April say to Addison, just quietly enough for me to know she’s about to be a real cunt, “So, you’re my cousin’s ex-girlfriend?” “I am,” Addison confirms. “Though, I like to think I’m his friend first.” April hums consideringly, then adds, “You’re not really what I expected.” “Oh?” is all Addison allows in response. “Well, you know,” April says, making one brief sweeping gesture to all of Addison. It’s very clear what she means; I contemplate bashing my head open on the coffee table so that I won’t have to hear the rest of this conversation. To her unending credit, Addison takes the slight in stride. She simply arches one perfectly groomed brow, turns to me, and says, “What, do y'all not have black people in Connecticut?” “Not in towns like Lakewood,” I admit, “but hey, don’t lump me in with the people from that state. I’m back in New York now.” “Oh, you are?” she says, slipping a hand into the crook of my elbow and steering me oh-so-casually away from April. “Are you at Columbia with Jamie?” I snort. “Right, like any Ivy League would have me.” Addison tries to hide her smirk, but I catch it anyway. “No, I’m doing… well, I’m choosing to call it a victory lap at Patton, my true and rightful home. My parents, on the other hand, are choosing to call it, ‘second go-around as a high school senior, with fingers crossed they don’t expel me like my public school did.’ What about you, still at Bible Baptist Academy?” “Yep. About to finish my first-and-only senior year,” she says. “I’m still deciding where I’ll head after that, though. You?” “Man, I got no idea,” I laugh, rubbing awkwardly at the back of my neck. “I’ve got all my college letters back, but I haven’t even opened ‘em yet. Been kind of… busy.” I gesture towards Jamie. Addison gives me a sad smile and says, “I can imagine.” Dinner ends up being equal parts sweet and tragic. The food that Magda has prepared is delicious, and the Hall twins keep their rudeness to themselves. Everyone keeps talking about George and Melissa, sharing stories about them, talking about how amazing they were, and it’s… painful. Maybe this is how they do things around here, but where I’m from, we don’t torment the living by listing all the things we’ll never get to experience again with the dead. By the time dessert has been finished, Jamie looks absolutely exhausted, like he’s one wrong comment away from shattering to pieces. Still, he stands and says, with a very forced smile, “Excuse me. I just, ah… I believe I need a moment to myself, if that’s quite alright.” “Of course,” Robin says, touching his elbow briefly. I watch him walk from the dining room, then listen to his feet taking the stairs. I can’t hear the click of his bedroom door from this far away, but I’m sure that’s where he is. I look over at Addison, on the other side of his vacated chair. “What do you think, Ads?” I say. “Give him ‘bout sixty seconds, and then we stalk his ass?” “I was thinking more like forty-five,” she says. We only manage thirty, and then we’re both excusing ourselves as well and sneaking upstairs to find Jamie. He’s in his room, as expected, lying back on his bed with his eyes closed. They flutter open the moment we enter, but before he even has time to sit up, I fling myself down next to him and curl up with my head resting on his chest. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to disappear like that.” “Don’t worry about it,” I mumble against his shirt. “It’s just, ah… even remembering the happy things doesn’t really make it better,” he says, “because what’s left now? I can’t remember how wonderful it felt to be home for the holidays a few months ago, because all I can think about is how empty the table’s going to be this year. I can’t think about all the times they were there for me, because all that does is underline the fact that now, I’m alone.” I untuck the front of his button-down so I can shove my hand up the hem of it, stroking my palm over his flat stomach because I need the reassurance of skin-on-skin. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not alone. You’re never going to be alone, okay? You have me, always.” Jamie doesn’t reply aloud, but he does nod. Addison kicks off her heels and crawls onto the bed on his other side, curling up under his arm and not saying a word. It feels like we lie there for hours, but it’s probably only twenty minutes or so. Finally, there’s a knock at the door. Jamie doesn’t move, and Addison doesn’t seem to want to. I take it upon myself to roll off the bed and answer the door. Pretty much the entire Chandler clan is standing in the hallway, with the exception of Austin and Charity. If any of them are surprised to peek in and see Addison lying with Jamie, they hide it well. “It’s getting late,” Marcus says, “and I expect that tomorrow will be a long, difficult day for everyone. We thought it might be best to head out.” “No,” Addison says, finally sitting up. “I’d like to stay.” She twists to look back down at Jamie. “If that’s alright, of course.” He blinks up at her and says softly, “You can stay as long as you’d like.” “Addy,” Robin says, voice carefully neutral, “I understand that you want to be there for James right now, and you will be there for him. But, given your relationship history, I’m not sure your father and I are comfortable with the idea of you spending the night here.” Sucks to be Robin and Marcus, I guess, because Jamie and Addison were fifteen when they lost their hetero-virginities to each other in the very bed that Robin is so worried they’ll defile tonight. I could very easily point this out, but contrary to what everyone around me thinks, I am developing a filter. Instead, I say, “It’s not a problem. I’ve been crashing in Jamie’s room, so there’s still a guest room up for grabs, if Addison wants it. She can stay here without it being… you know. Inappropriate, or whatever.” Like I have any capacity to judge what counts as “appropriate.” There’s a bit more hemming and hawing, but eventually, the Chandlers cave and give Addison permission to spend the night. Darcy promises to be by in the morning with a change of clothes so she can get cleaned up and ready for the service. The family departs, with Marcus stopping to give Jamie one last long, considering look. And I guess that look is warranted, because two hours later, I’m the one crawling into bed alone in the guest room, not Addison.